


Gen. 5:32

by betheplagedoctor



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-02-18
Packaged: 2017-11-26 06:16:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/647473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betheplagedoctor/pseuds/betheplagedoctor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing is right, nothing makes sense, and it's killing Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [partyghoul](https://archiveofourown.org/users/partyghoul/gifts).



“…lock? Sherlock? SHERLOCK!”

“Lestrade, you don’t need to yell. I’m right here.”

“Not all of you,” Lestrade muttered. He was exhausted. It didn’t help that Sherlock obviously knew something and didn’t think it was relevant enough to tell him. He just wanted Sherlock to give him a straightforward answer, just once. 

This was the third body this week that had turned up just like this. No evidence, prints, or leads. Anderson was gone on holiday, so he was missing his best forensics man. Despite what Sherlock said, Anderson was good at what he did, he was just a giant prat. It was a relief that Sherlock brought John along, but by the look of it, the poor sod hadn’t been given much choice. 

“Right,” John said. “Same as the other two bodies; badly beaten, missing organs, vital and non-vital, no eyes, and no tongue. His left arm looks like he’s been sticking needles into it and—“

“No.”

“Sherlock, I—“

“The man was left-handed John, I honestly don’t think that he could maneuver his arm in such a way.”

“Fine, Sherlock, but that just ties him into the other two bodies. Someone was injecting some sort of substance into their veins, and whatever it is eats away at muscle tissue. In short, he didn’t die peacefully.” 

“Hmm…” Sherlock stared at the body and bent low to get a better look at it. He was going to take some muscle samples in to Molly.

They had gotten on well after the incident involving him and Moriarty in the aftermath of the fall. She provided him with places to stay when he was destroying Moriarty’s web, and she called John every day, just to make sure he didn’t do anything stupid. She was his biggest defender, second only to John, in Sherlock’s innocence and she also helped repair his few longstanding relationships. Molly had gotten to the point in her life where she finally realized that she and Sherlock were never meant to be. 

Sherlock dragged John away from the crime scene, promising to call Lestrade with details on the case. The two headed over to St. Bart’s and John waited outside, he hadn’t been inside the place since That Day. He knew he would have to get over his fears one day, but today apparently wasn’t it. 

“Molly! Molly? Where are you? Did you find anything on the previous samples yet? Molly?” 

Sherlock looked around, but couldn’t find her anywhere. He knew she wasn’t in the cafeteria because he told her what was on the menu today and there was no way any sensible human being would even want to think about eating that slop.

“Molly?” he called again. He knew she was here but where was—

“Sherlock? What are you doing here? What’s that? Are you stealing body parts again? Sherlock, I asked you to stop—“

“I was not stealing. I brought in more samples. There’s been another killing and I need to make comparisons. I don’t think there’s any difference in the poison or rate of decay, but just to be on the safe side.”

“Oh, of course, yes. The other samples haven’t changed since you last dropped them off, it’s like the poison just stopped working after the body died. There’s traces, but nothing like the amount we need to fully process what it is, and I don’t even know any sort of poison that can do this sort of thing.”

“Have you tried mixing samples of the contaminated tissue with healthy muscle tissue?”

“Yes, and nothing happened. I think the poison either needs to be fresh or the tissue needs to be alive.”

“This does cause a problem. However, this new sample might prove otherwise.”  
\---

John stood outside St. Bart’s shivering. It was mid February and it was cold and rainy. John knew it was his fault he didn’t go inside, but that didn’t stop him from blaming Sherlock for taking so long. The longer he stood outside, the more he felt like someone’s dog that they tied up outside the shop because he wasn’t allowed in. This again was just ridiculous because he was perfectly welcome inside, but he just couldn’t, not yet. 

“John? Are you still out here?” John turned around and saw Sherlock was standing behind him, looking concerned.

“Of course. I’m bloody outside, where else am I supposed to go? You know how I feel about this place!”

“Home, maybe?”

John blushed, he hadn’t thought about that, he wasn’t really keen on leaving Sherlock either, but he wasn’t about to tell him that. Lately John’s been feeling strange towards Sherlock, certainly he’s always felt protective of him, but his feelings have moved into more dangerous territory and he couldn’t let them continue; it was a train wreck waiting to happen. 

John didn’t realize he’d been staring at Sherlock for about a minute now without saying or doing anything. His blush started up once again and he turned and marched away.

“John! John, wait! Don’t be upset, please? It’s perfectly natural to feel the way you do.”  
John froze and fear crept up on him. No, no, no, no, no, no! This can’t happen! He hid it so well, though he was hiding his feelings for Sherlock, from Sherlock. John swallowed and turned around, hoping that this wouldn’t turn into a giant row in the middle of London. 

“Sherlock, can we please talk about this at home?”

“It’s okay. I understand why you’re afraid of St. Bart’s, next time I go I’ll just tell you. That way you won’t feel the need to be dragged along with me.”  
John almost cried in relief, his secret was still safe, for now. In the meantime, he wanted to get back to 221B and get out of his wet clothes before he caught hypothermia.


	2. Gen 41:1-3

                

                Sherlock woke up in a cold sweat. God, he hates sleep. It had been three days since he last slept and he felt like he was going to die, although sleeping didn’t look like a good idea either. Sherlock wasn’t afraid of much, but sleeping was a fear of his he kept to himself. He did cocaine for a reason, a reason very different from the one he told Mycroft when he found out about his little brother’s addiction.

                Sherlock had nightmares. Horrible ones. He’s been having them since he was about six and they all are different, but last night’s was one he frequently had:

                Mycroft, his mother, and him were all inside his childhood home. In the dream he was about three, and Mycroft about ten, his mother was holding him and twirling around the kitchen. He was laughing and smiling while Mycroft was wrote out something, probably for school. His mother finally set him down on the table and he clapped and looked at his brother.

               “Mikey, Mikey, Mikey!” he yelled and clapped. Mycroft groaned.

               “Mom, make him stop! He knows I hate that nickname and he’s just doing it to annoy me!” Mycroft whined.

               “Mycroft, he’s going to keep doing that if you let him know it annoys you, I’m surprised that you haven’t caught on to that yet.”

                Mycroft shook his head and looked back at his little brother. Sherlock was grinning at him and he couldn’t stay mad at his little brother. He didn’t mean any harm. Sherlock looked outside at the rain pouring down and wondered when the sun would come back so he could go outside again.

                Then the dream took a turn for the worst.

                Sherlock’s father walked in carrying something. Sherlock didn’t know what it was, all he knew was they daddy was home. He had missed him. Sherlock reached for his father, hoping to be picked up again. His mother stood and went to his father and Mycroft picked him up and started walking towards the couple. Sherlock squealed and reached his arms out to his father. Suddenly Mycroft stopped.

               “Father? Father what are you—“

                Sherlock heard his mother scream. His father plunged the item in his hand into his mother’s stomach.

               “RUN, MYCROFT! PROTECT HIM! PLEASE!” She was kneeling now and his dad took the knife and plunged it into her back. Then mother spoke no more.

                Mycroft ran as fast as his legs could carry him. He clutched Sherlock tight and burst outside. They ran into the forest that boardered their house and hesitated before entering the darkness. Sherlock hated this. Going through the forest at night was scary he wanted to go back home and make Mycroft fix their mother. Suddenly, he was pushed into the hollowed out base of a tree. He knew this place, it was his and Mycroft’s secret fort. No one knew about this place. He opened his mouth to ask Mycroft what was going on, but Mycroft kept a hand over his mouth to keep him quiet. Suddenly, they heard what sounded like a big animal searching for something. Only it wasn’t an animal, it was their father, he was looking for them.

                “Come out little kiddies,” their father said in a sing-song voice. “Mikey, come on out, kiddo, daddy only wants to play a game.” Mycroft shuddered and moved Sherlock farther away from the hidden opening. He crouched in front of him and pick up the Swiss army knife they kept inside the tree at all times.

                 His father called out again, “Sherlock, come on my little Loch-ness monster, come on out. If you come out now, daddy’ll take you out for some ice cream, promise.” Sherlock looked at his brother and Mycroft shook his head and Sherlock finally realized that Mycroft was afraid of their dad. He thought that was ridiculous, maybe he could help fix their mom. He pushed past Mycroft and ran outside. Mycroft reached out to stop him but it was too late, he was already outside and he was running into his father’s arms. He was picked up but something was wrong. He couldn’t breathe! His dad was squeezing him too tight. He tried struggling to get free, but he couldn’t. Suddenly, Mycroft was running at him, brandishing the Swiss army knife and—

                 His dad still had the thing that he used on their mom. He then moved to use it on Mycroft. There was red stuff everywhere and Mycroft was chocking on it. His dad started squeezing him again and he really couldn’t breathe. Little spots started showing up around his eyes and he felt really dizzy, like when mummy spun him around too fast. His head felt lighter and lighter and he felt like he was going to fly away. His already spotty vision got darker—

                That’s when Sherlock woke up most of the time.

                God, he hates sleep. 


	3. Luke 15:11

John came downstairs to see if Sherlock had monopolized the living room table, yet again, messing with his experiments. He sighed deeply and shook his head. Just once he’d like to have a normal morning. Just once! He stayed in the doorstep thinking that this was the safest distance; one can never tell what that distance is when dealing with Sherlock’s experiments, but it never hurts to play it safe.

“John, go into the kitchen and bring me the plastic bag labeled muscle tissue.”

“Aw, Sherlock, can’t you do that in the kitchen?”

“It _started_ in the kitchen, if that helps,” Sherlock said without looking up. “I ran out of room so I had to move in here to finish.”

“Well, did you at least get any sleep last night like I told you?”

“More or less,” Sherlock sighed.

“Aw, Sherlock, you know you have to get food and rest before you jump into a case or else you get too distracted and you’ll just end up passing out like last time,” John said. He was irritated, frustrated, and he just wanted his coffee and to be able to pick up some hours at the clinic. He was running low on money and even though Sherlock didn’t mind; he hated borrowing money from him.

“Yes, John, fine. I’ll try and get some sleep tonight, but that’s it, no more, I still have to figure this out.”

“What is it anyway? Are you still on about the whole poison thing? Look, I’m telling you to just drop it and focus on a different part of the case.”

“I can’t move on in the case, John; not until I figure out what kind of poison this is. Frankly, it hardly looks like poison. There’s something off about it, but I just can’t pinpoint what it is.” Sherlock was driving himself into a hole; it was like trying to crack the Chinese mafia smuggling code all over again. He was systematically working through various poisons and he wasn’t even halfway through, despite starting at one in the morning. He had only made his way through animal venom and he still had to go through man-made and elemental ones.

“Sherlock, maybe I can help you. Let me—“

“Here, take this, look through this list of poisons, it’ll speed it up the process. I’m working my way through every poison that even remotely has any of these reactions.”

“Do you think his highness will allow me to touch his precious microscope so I can look at the samples?”

“Humor rarely suits you, John.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Fine, I’ll look at the other samples”

John laughed and sat down next to Sherlock to have a look at the original sample. He wondered if he was looking at the actual crime scene muscle samples or something from one of Sherlock’s previous experiments. He looked up and blinked. “Sherlock?”

“Hmm?”

“Is this the right sample you wanted to show me?”

“Yes, why?”

“I don’t think its poison.”

“Yes, John, I know it doesn’t _look_ like poison, but I—“

“No, Sherlock, I honestly don’t think it’s poison. It looks like something I learned about in Uni.”

“What? What is it?”

“We learned that if induced, antibodies can turn against you, you know... start attacking the body and whatnot. They can attack anything, depending on how they’re provoked. It honestly looked like this guy’s antibodies were forced against him, that is to say they went nuts and started attacking the body.”

“So, what we’re looking for now is something that can make your antibodies turn against you?”

“Well,” John started. “There are certain antibiotics that can cause this, but they would have to be introduced over a length of time and even then, the reaction would be nothing to this extent...at least I think not.”

“Maybe the antibiotics were modified somehow,” Sherlock murmured. He no longer noticed John's presence as he picked up the various spreadsheets and loose papers lying around and threw them in a pile next to the sofa. He then picked up a laptop (John’s) and started searching for God-knows-what.

John groaned inwardly and looked at the time. “Well,” he sighed. “I’m off to work. Will you try not to get us evicted while I'm gone?”

There was no response from Sherlock, not that he was expecting much of one. John can tell that until this case is over, he won’t hear much from the man. _‘It’s funny,’_ John thought to himself. _‘He seems to talk to me more when I’m away than when I’m actually around.’_ John shook his head and walked out the door.

\---

As soon as John left, Sherlock jumped up and watched him leave, just to make sure he was gone. He then took a deep breath and went to pick up his phone where it lay under the coffee table. How it got there, even Sherlock didn’t know. He stared at it for what seemed like hours before he got up the nerve to call the number.

_“Hello?”_

“Lestrade? What are you— oh, God.”

_“Sherlock, how nice to talk to you. Have you gotten anything on the case yet?”_

“I thought you and Mycroft broke up.”

_“…that’s not exactly what I was looking for, Sherlock, but yes, we’ve worked out our, ah, differences shall we say and moved on. The past is the past.”_

“Look, just, where is he?”

_“Hold on, let me find him.”_

Sherlock could hear muffling in the background and he could guess at what they’d been up to before he called, he cringed.

_“Hello, dear brother to what do I owe the pleasure.”_

“Look, Mycroft, I don’t want to play any sort of games with you right now, alright? I just, ugh.”

_“Sherlock, are you alright? You sound, well I don’t know if nervous is the right word but—“_

“Mycroft!”

_“Yes?”_

Sherlock sighed and gathered his courage once more. “The nightmares are back,” he said.

_“Sherlock, you’ve always had nightmares. How is this one different from the rest?”_

“You died.”

_“My, my, that is disturbing. Wait, what dream was this? I’ve never heard any one like this.”_

“It’s the one with dad, you know, he’s gone off the hinge and killed mum. This time instead of staying hidden with you, I ran out when he called me.”

 _“Hmm,”_ Mycroft mused. To any other person, Sherlock would seem more annoyed than usual, but in fact, he knew that this was the closest to a panic attack that Sherlock’s mind would allow. Sherlock’s dreams never made any sense, for instance, their father never went on any sort of rampage of any kind. In fact, he was a very kind and doting man. Mycroft shook his head and tried reasoning with his brother.  _“Sherlock, I honestly think that you should talk to a professional about these dreams.”_ Mycroft knew it was hopeless getting him to talk to any therapist. The last time Mycroft had any sort of success, Sherlock ended up deducing the poor man to tears, to no one’s surprise.

“No, Mycroft. Look, I just need someone to listen. The thing is, my dreams wouldn’t disturb me if they made any sort of sense. None of them make any sense at all! It’s driving me mad and I can’t have these things nagging at me. I have a very important case to work on and—“

_“Hmm, yes I know. Do you really think it’s antibodies, Sherlock?”_

“Maybe. John might be onto something, as you well know, he’s less moronic than most of the human population.”

_“High praise indeed.”_

“Oh, dear brother, another thing. What on earth is Lestrade doing at your house, hmm? I thought he ended it.”

Mycroft cleared his throat before answering. _“Ah, yes. Well, no. Not really. I persuaded him to give me a second chance.”_

“What on earth is it with Greg and dating cheaters? Is it a psychological thing?”

 _“Sherlock,”_ Mycroft said in warning. _“Please drop it. It was a mistake. A huge one. I got drunk at that party and things got out of hand.”_

“Fascinating,” Sherlock gasped. He was joking with Mycroft of course. He was happy that Greg had forgiven his brother, but he also knew Mycroft had to be extremely careful from now on. Mycroft was just lucky Greg was feeling lonely and forgiving when Mycroft had come around begging, in a surprisingly non Holmes-esque way, for a second chance. Greg broke down, but Mycroft wasn’t getting off easily; Sherlock knew for a fact that, because Greg hung around him and Mycroft for so long, he knew exactly how many hoops to make Mycroft jump through before he just figured it wasn’t worth it. Sherlock was secretly enjoying his brother getting his own.

 _“Shut up, Sherlock.”_ Mycroft growled.

   “Mmm, well this talk has been wonderful. Really uplifting. I don’t know why I don’t ask for your help more often, Mycroft.”

_“I’m hanging up.”_

    “Give Lestrade my best, will you, brother dear?”

     The phone clicked and he laughed, and put the phone down. He sat at the laptop and went back to searching for anything that can trigger any sort of antibody attack.

 

 

 


	4. Gen 9:29

                 John walked in to see poor 221B in even more disarray than usual. He looked around the house, trying to find Sherlock. Calling him would be fruitless; he would never answer. John figured he’s out, so he decided to clean up what didn’t look remotely like an experiment. He was in no mood to deal with a childishly depressed Sherlock; arrogant Sherlock was enough. As soon as he started cleaning, his phone went off.

 _“John?”_ a gruff voice said.

                 “Oh, Lestrade, how are you?”

_“Fine, fine. Umm, is Sherlock in? He’s not picking up his phone and we need him for this case. It’s the same guy and it’s getting progressively worse.”_

                 “No, he’s not here. Did you try asking Mycroft if he’s seen him?”

_“I don’t want to keep using him as a go-to for when I need help. I can’t be the helpless one in this relationship. And another thing—“_

                “Greg, Greg. Please calm down. I hit a nerve and I’m sorry.”

                “No, I’m sorry I overreacted. People in the yard have been asking me that as well. It’s not as if he can watch for the killer at all times and—“

                “Greg, I’ll find him. Don’t worry.”

                “I’m not worried. I’m just stressed is all... Look, could you come up then? The crime scene is about a block from the yard.”

                “Alright, I’ll be right up.”

                John heard Greg hang up so he grabbed his keys and ran out the door, flagging down a cab. When one finally stopped for him, he jumped inside and gave the cabbie the address. The whole ride he sat with a bad feeling in his stomach. Greg’s jumpiness had more to do with the scene than Mycroft, and John wasn’t looking forward to examining the next victim. When John finally arrived, he was immediately accosted by Greg on sight.

               “John, umm... look, it was a bad idea asking you down here and I—“

               “Greg, what is it? You’ve been jumpy and irritable since I talked to you this morning. What’s happened to this one, then?”

               “It’s not necessarily what, so much as who. Look, John, this isn’t easy... but, it’s Stamford.”

               “What?”

               “Stamford. The body is Stamford. The bruises and such look the same as all the others but—“

               John wasn’t listening, his friend, his good friend, was brutally murdered and stripped for parts. The last time he talked to him was when he'd said ‘goodbye’ after their meet up at the pub.  He sat on the ground next to the body and he stared at Mike, hoping he would somehow come back to life, like Sherlock. But Mike wasn’t Sherlock and he wasn’t coming back. Mike was the man who'd introduced a new chapter into his life, he was eternally grateful and he would find the bastard who did this. Even if it was the last thing he did.

\---

                Swimming…he was swimming in a haze. Somewhere he might have been in pain, but he wasn’t sure. He groaned and rolled over, he couldn’t open his eyes. They were stuck. The haze was lifting. Not good. The pain was starting to get sharper, more real. No, nothing could be real. He was done. There was nothing more he could do. He tried shifting his arms and legs around only to find them restrained somehow. Either that or he was paralyzed. That’d be just his luck. He willed himself to disconnect so the pain wouldn’t take over and force his mind to focus again.

“ _Ah ah ahhh”_ a strange voice tutted. "We’ve spent a lot of time and money on you, Mr. Moriarty, and we’d hate to see it go to waste."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry this took 40 years and i sort of promise to never let it happen again for now


	5. John 11: 38

           He wasn’t supposed to be here. Hell, he wasn’t even supposed to be alive. He thought he was done; he'd served his purpose. Sherlock was dead. He was never coming back.

            Sherlock, beautiful Sherlock. He’d fallen in love when he first met him. His Cupid’s bow mouth firing off deductions, that big beautiful brain of his working nonstop. Those brains must have made a huge mess scattered across the pavement. That was the only regret he had before he shot himself, he didn’t see the beautiful sidewalk art that his blood would make.

            But that was something for another time. The people who'd hired him, who _made_ him didn’t want him dead, and that was a huge problem. It meant things were going to get worse. He thought his death would mean they would get bored with their projects. Screw the money and time that the damn surgeon was yammering about. They had other projects that they spent just as much time and money on, if not more; like Sebastian. Where was he? Damn him, he probably got their _creators_ to fix him. He told that man that he didn’t want to be fixed. He should’ve never told his lover about his plans to kill himself, whether or not Sherlock complied. If he ever gets out of this room, he’ll have a few words with that man. He told him love wasn’t a good emotion to have, and admitting it to their superiors would put his tiger in a bad position.

            Moriarty stood and tried to walk to the door to see if it was unlocked, only succeeding in falling seconds later. “Damn,” he said. “How the hell do I get out of here?”

             Suddenly, the click of a lock sounded and he closed his eyes, pretending to sleep. “Don’t know why that press bitch fell for that Richard Brook bull. To me, you’re shit at acting.”

             “Moran, you idiot!”

             “Nice to see you too, boss.”

             “Why did you bribe them into bringing me back?”

             “Believe me; you made it clear that you wanted to die. Hell, I wanted to go with you. Those bastards kept a close eye on me to make sure that didn’t happen. So, in trade for me not killin’ myself and every other damn ‘project’ that was within my reach, I asked them to bring you back, something we both knew they could do without fuss.”

             “Fine, but when do we get out of here?”

             “We aren’t allowed to leave this shithole until the ‘good doctor’ deems you street worthy, so about a month, give or take.”

              Moriarty groaned and flopped back down onto his cot. He cracked open one eye and said, “What did the ‘good doctor’ say about sex?”

             “Mmm, none of that either, sadly. You’re not fit to do anything but lay there and be poked at with a stick.”

             “I don’t see why you can’t poke me with your stick.”

             “No, boss,” sighed Sebastian.

             “Not even a blowjob, Sebby?” Jim cooed.

             “As much as I’d love to see you on your knees, no.”

             “I was talking about me, idiot,” Jim growled.

            “Mmm, I know, but it was nice to pretend for a change.”

            “I’m sure that mental image will be wanking material for weeks to come.”

            “It’ll tie me over until you’re given the clean bill of health,” Sebastian sighed.

            Torture wouldn’t make him admit to it, but Sebastian had missed his boss cum lover. Despite the fact that he was made to care for him; the rules carved into his brain never told him how much love he was supposed to give, the same goes for Jim. That short asshole was near impossible to control, and their superiors never really got the hang of it. He was not supposed to kill himself and he certainly wasn’t supposed to go that far when he was sent to go after Sherlock. To be truthful, Moran thought Moriarty was trying to warn Sherlock off. Telling him to hide and not get into the spotlight, or he’ll end up like them. The only thing keeping them alive and obedient was fear; a cold, dark fear that tore at his insides and made him want to hurl every time he thought too much about it. 

            They’ve had Sebastian since birth, him being the son of one of the lab workers there. Jim was kidnapped, so they couldn’t have known his family’s history of instability and insanity. The kid was batshit insane. By the time the lab workers got their hands on him, he had already killed a kid for some slight against his person. Of _course_ they linked his emotions to his, they just _had_ to. It turned out better than he’d hoped and the two turned into the doctor’s worst nightmares. Lab rats like him and Jimmy were probably the reason why they had experiments running around outside of the lab who knew nothing of life inside the facility; Like the Holmes brothers. Sebastian wondered how they would cope when they finally found out that they were just experiments. He laughed, wondering how Sherlock would react to finding out he was no better than the corpses he sliced and diced.

            “What’s so funny?” Jim asked.

            “Stupid stuff,” Sebastian replied.

 


End file.
